The Loup Garou Society - Julie Steimle (most romantic novels TXT) 📗

also had a decorative railing that stood about a meter tall. Normally people put plants on this little ledge, but for wolf feet, this one had been kept clear. Some of the wolves who lived there liked to sit up on the roof occasionally. It only seemed fitting that the Deacon heir had taken that route out of the apartment. She had to give him points for his clear thinking and ingenuity. It was a shame, in a way, that she had to kill him. Under any other circumstance, she might have wanted to get to know him.

“What are you doing, Margarete?” Theon called to her.

She turned around, then smirked at Theon’s choice in leather vest, probably intended to intimidate a seventeen-year-old rich American. Theon looked more like a wolf in it. “I was thinking about climbing out onto the roof. I can’t get to my brother, so… I figured I’d just get a beer and get drunk.”

“Don’t fall off,” Theon said with a chuckle.

“It would probably do us good if she did,” one of the she-wolves murmured.

“I know…” another whispered back. “She and her sister are nothing but trouble. Deacon blood, you know.”

Margarete had originally decided to ignore their snide remarks. But then, irritated their coldness to a fellow wolf, she turned around and said, “That’s probably something you had better consider before seeking to get pregnant by one.”

She went back to the window in a huff.

Carefully climbing out, she peeked towards where the heir had been. He was no longer there, but further down—just lying against the roof, barefoot and breathing in and out. His shoes were tied together at the laces and in his hand. When he heard her, his head perked up like a wary animal. He shifted on his feet as if he would spring off the roof to some imaginary structure across the way. It was a deadly drop from where they were. Nothing would catch him.

“I’m not coming out to hurt you,” she lied. “I just came to sit.”

He sat back warily, his instincts good, watching her. 

Scooting along the roof, her feet near the narrow railing, Margarete looked down just once as she went along.

They were up really high.

The rail suddenly felt like it was a millimeter tall, and not enough to keep her from sliding off to her doom. And though she usually had a head for heights, she had never actually done this before. Genevieve and Louisa loved to chat on the rooftop whenever they got together, and it had seemed effortless. With another look down as she scooted nearer to that wolf-cub, vertigo set in.

She felt like she was falling.

Then, he was right next to her, pulling her to the ceiling and holding her there. It had been but a second. His face was almost touching hers. She could push him right now and she would be done with him.

But with that thought, she realized he had just saved her life.

“You’re not a regular roof climber, are you?” And he was smirking.

Gently shoving him off, trying not to fall herself, Margarete felt her face go hot.

“Catch your breath,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”

It was the best advice, considering. She was embarrassed, though. Apparently—while watching him agilely shift his bare feet on the roof tiles and lean with perfect balance with a stare at her—she realized he was experienced in this.

“Do you… sneak out of many parties back in America?” she asked.

He laughed, but kept it down, shaking his head. “No. I don’t party. But I have snuck out buildings a lot.”

She stared. “A lot?”

He chuckled, looking embarrassed. “Frequently. More than my father would like.”

The mention of his father made her stiffen.

He noticed it. She could tell that he was hyper-attentive. And that fact made her realize that there was very little deception she could pull over his eyes. If she wanted to kill him, she would have to do it now, and quick. The problem was—peeking down at the ground below—she was sure that if she pushed him, he would catch himself somewhere and hop to safety while she would plummet to her death.

“Why did you really come out here?” he asked.

Despite all her anger from all those years, even despite her better judgement—she could not help but like this boy. He at least deserved an honest answer. “I came to kill you.”

He raised his eyebrows, kind of like Remy in a way. But almost older in expression. It was like this pup had seen everything in his short lifespan, and this entire scenario was not new to him.

He peered down the edge of the roof and said, “So you intended to push me off?”

Looking away, Margarete nodded.

He peered critically at her. Then he shrugged and scratched the back of his head. “I see… Well, I guess this means you are my sister.”

She lifted her head, shocked. How did he add that up?

Apologetically, the heir shrugged. “Dad didn’t want to abandon you, you know. The Loup Garou Society made him agree to it. They won’t even tell him who you are.”

Chills ran through her. It was unsettling how level-headed he was. But she was still angry.

“Have you always known about us?” she asked, feeling her anger rise.

He shook his head, staring up at the moon. “No. I found out today. Dad’s been keeping me away from the Loup Garou. I think he brought me this time because he thought I could handle it.”

She laughed ironically. “No one can handle the Loup Garou. Our pack was selected by the goddess Diana. Everyone runs to us. We are protected by her, and blessed. What the elders of the Loup Garou say is law.”

He cringed as if he had an upset stomach, but half of his reaction was pure cynicism which he was trying to hide from her.

“You don’t believe that?” she asked, challenging him.

“The world is a lot larger than France,” he said.

His words shocked her at first. But then she laughed at him, shaking her head while realizing the truth of why he had said that. But of course—he was a heretic. Lone wolves were. Pathetic and sad, they believed they were cursed. They did not understand that if they just turned to Diana and worshipped on the full moon, their enemies would have no power over them. And, of course, this young pup, according to the gossip she had overheard, had a number of scars as a result of his savage existence.

She pitied him. She couldn’t kill such an ignorant wolf as this.

“I don’t think I want to kill you anymore,” she said.

His face was plain with doubt.

And she laughed. He truly was smart. But she had meant every word. Sighing, Margarete said, “It’s ok. I wouldn’t believe me either.”

He sat down a couple of meters away, though he still looked inclined to run if she reached for him. He then stared out at the city lights. Finally, he said after a stretch of silence, “Dad really didn’t want to abandon you all. He was young, and he did a stupid thing.”

“Do you believe everything he tells you?” Margarete asked, still not quite ready to forgive her father.

He chuckled, ducking his head. “Dad is not guilty of lying as much as keeping secrets. He tells lies of omission.”

She stared, not quite getting it.

“I didn’t know I was a werewolf until I was thirteen,” he said.

She stared more. She had thought that rumor was a lie.

Shrugging, he chuckled through something he clearly was uncomfortable with. “I… I had never even met another werewolf besides my dad until I was sixteen.”

Her eyes widened on him, unable to believe it, though undoubtedly he was telling the truth.

“The first two pack wolves I ever met were Canadian,” Rick murmured. “And in the middle of New York City… at a zoo.” He shook his head. “I mean, Dad told me all about the Loup Garou, and the German pack, and… and there’s this pack in Colorado we help out to keep law enforcement off their backs. And I know there are other packs Dad does business with around the world in other countries, but…” He shook his head even lower. “…he told me wolf relations was very complicated, so he kept me out of it.”

“Do you think he lied?” Margarete asked.

He lifted his gaze to her. “No, though he tries his hardest to protect me. But why couldn’t he have told me earlier the reason wolf relations were so complicated? That the Loup Garou has blackmail on him—and I have half-brothers-and-sisters in France.”

Pack politics. Of course the elders had blackmail on Mr. Howard Richard Deacon II. A rich man in America in their pocket was incredibly useful. Of course, wolf relations were complicated. But she lifted her eyes to the heir, inspecting this poor lost soul who needed the goddess Diana. She had to say something.

“My name is Margarete.”

He blinked at her and came a little closer. “Rick Deacon.”

She chuckled, pulling back. “I thought your name was Howard.”

Rolling his eyes, he said, “Technically, it is. Howard Richard Deacon the Third. Blah, blah, blah…. I go by my middle name—and as Rick.”

“But why?”

He just raised his eyebrows at her, the look saying ‘are you serious?’ Then he shook his head. “Because, the name Howard is lame, and old-sounding. And I refuse to go by Howie anymore.”

She giggled. “But Howie is cute.” She patted him on the head.

He brushed her hand off. “Stop it. It’s a baby name. I’ve left that in my past.”

“I bet your mother loved calling you Howie,” Margarete teased, enjoying this. It was kind of nice having a little brother, especially one as adorable as this.

But he seemed to wilt under those words.

“She did,” he said above a whisper. “Then she divorced my dad and left us after she found out I was a werewolf.”

Margarete paled.

He shook it off, straightening up. Rick started toward the end of the roof, almost limping away as if wounded—but he was actually leaning towards the roof.

“Hey,” she called after him. “Where are you going?”

He thumbed down. “Out. I’m not going back to that party, thank you very much.”

“But… how are you going to get off this roof?”

Rick smirked at her. So much mischief was in those eyes. “Easy. I’ve done this for years. You go back inside the normal way. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again.”

Margarete looked back to the window. It was easily within her reach, and she could just climb in and walk away. But then what? If she left so soon, those in the party might get suspicious and assume she had succeeded in pushing him off the roof—which had been her intention all along, of course. She crawled after him.

“Take me with you,” she said.

He stared down at her, closing one eye. “Are you trying to kill me still?”

She moaned. “It is more likely you could kill me. I thought I had a head for heights, but you are like some kind of acrobat.”

He chuckled. Peering off the roof, he said, “Not an acrobat. But I had a friend who could walk through walls and another who could turn into a cat and climb out windows—and I had learned that the best way to sneak out of third floor mansion also applied to New York brownstone buildings.”

Though her English was good, she didn’t quite get the meaning of all that. She was sure he had just said he had a friend who could walk through walls, and that was utter nonsense.

“It is safer if you just go back through the window,” he said.

She shook her head, rising onto her knees. “For me, yes. But for you, no. If I go in, knowing Remy and Theon, they’ll think I had successfully broken into your room and thrown you off the roof.”

“Which you had intended to do,” Rick chuckled wryly.

Ignoring him, she continued, “I’d have to wait for them to call me in for them to believe that you’re still alive. If I didn’t, they’d break your door down. They were already